I checked in with my parents before I left Albuquerque; I checked in with them every week. They bought me a cell phone so I could be sure to call, no matter where I was—and so they could always find me. They weren't happy about my situation. They kept inviting me to stay with them however long I needed to. I appreciated the thought. But I couldn't do that to them.

I kept a lookout for Elijah Smith and the Church of the Pure Faith. There was still a story there. My ultimate goal was to get Smith himself as a guest on the show. Not likely, but a girl could dream. Every now and then I found a flyer, or someone sent one to me, advertising his caravan. I always seemed to be a week behind him.

Detective Hardin got hold of me through Ben O'Farrell. God help me, I hired the lawyer on retainer. I had my mail forwarded to him, and he had my contact information. He'd been calm and straightforward the night Zan died. In daylight hours, outside the stress of the police station, he proved just as straightforward. He was never above giving advice on something as mundane as car insurance.

Best of all, Hardin had to talk to him before she could get to me. But even O'Farrell couldn't put her off forever. We talked on the phone the week I stayed in Albuquerque.

"We found your DNA on the first werewolf's body, in his mouth and under his fingernails. That makes you an assault victim. Then we found your DNA in the saliva on the wounds of the second body, which could get you in trouble. But we're willing to make a case for self-defense since he also had your blood under his fingernails." She made it sound so technical. This was my blood we were talking about.

If it hadn't been my blood involved, I would have laughed at how the whole thing sounded like some werewolf version of a Mexican standoff. I admired Hardin for trying to sort out who had attacked whom first.

"We found a fourth set of werewolf DNA in the saliva on the wounds of the body outside your apartment. It's the only link unaccounted for. All I need is a name."

The implication was that I could be charged with a crime in the middle of this mess. O'Farrell wanted me to fess up.

I didn't have anyone to protect anymore.

"T.J. Theodore Joseph Gurney. He lives in the cabin behind the garage at Ninety-fifth and South. I don't think he's there anymore." Present tense. If I told Hardin he was dead, she would just open another murder investigation. I could have pointed her to Carl in that case. But I didn't. This had to end somewhere.

"Then where did he go?"

"I don't know." That at least was true. I didn't know where he was now. "He didn't tell me."

"Can I believe you?"

"Yes."

"Why did you leave town?"

"I had to. It wasn't safe for me to stay, after what I did."

"You were afraid of ending up like that body outside your apartment."

"Yes."

She sighed. "You might be interested to know, the powers that be are actually listening to me."

"You mean you say 'werewolf' and they believe you?"

"Yeah. The alternative is the theory that some ritual slaying specialist came up with about a cult of cannibals to explain why they found shredded bodies with pieces missing. The idea is the cult imploded when it turned on itself and the members started eating each other. Werewolves sound downright rational compared to that."

Except there was a hint of truth to the cannibal theory as well.

She said, "If I think of anything else, I'll call you."

"Yeah. Sure."

We parted civilly.

Hardin was a good person. I felt grateful for her open-mindedness and her professionalism through all this. I just wished I hadn't been the focus of her efforts.

I didn't even have a picture of T.J.

I was closing in on Austin when NPR aired a report. I cranked up the volume when I heard a key phrase.

The reporter said, "… Paranatural Biology, releasing findings to Congress in response to questions that have been raised regarding unusual appropriation requests. Doctor Paul Flemming, an assistant director of the National Institutes of Health overseeing the Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology, offered this statement at a press conference held earlier today."

Then Doctor Flemming spoke:

"I am authorized at this time to announce the formation of the Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology within the National Institutes of Health. In conjunction with the British Alternative Biologies Laboratory, we are prepared to release findings recognizing the existence of alternate races of Homo sapiens , races that were once considered only legend…" Blood rushed in my ears. This was the government, a spokesperson for the government. They were blowing my world wide open.

More than that, I recognized the voice. Deep Throat. My secret government spook. I stifled a laugh as he went on to explain the report in terms of taxonomy and science.

"These conditions are mutations brought on by as yet unidentified infectious agents. The following conditions have been identified… Homo sapiens sanguinis … commonly known as vampire. Homo sapiens lupus … commonly known as werewolf. Homo sapiens pinnipedia …"

I had his name. As soon as I stopped for the afternoon, I was going to find his phone number and give him a call.

At a gas station somewhere in West Texas, I went into the store to stock up on road trip munchies. On my way to the cash register, I passed a rack of newspapers and stopped cold. I stared. I smiled. I bought a paper, the latest issue of Wide World of News .

I would frame it, and as soon as I had a wall, it would go up. The headline read:

"Bat Boy to Appear as Guest on The Midnight Hour ."